Where To Take The Excess, pt. 2: Union Church of Pocantico Hills

I wanted to write about where to take thrashed linens and clothes today, but my inner academic insists on doing more research before I get all didactic on you. Just don’t toss them yet.

 

I feel your pain: this is only 1/4 of my "Go" pile
 

For the time being, if you are a Westchester local and you want to unload The Excess, Pocantico Hills Union Church (on Route 448) posted this notice on their website:

 
Currently, we are accepting donations of BOOKS (no textbooks); FURNITURE (delivery to the church is desirable--no old box springs and mattresses); WHITE ELEPHANTS (no outdated or non-working electronics such as computers, printers, TVs, etc.); JEWELRY; ANTIQUES; LINENS; BOUTIQUES; and CLOTHING (men's women's and children's--clothing must be clean, neatly folded, or on hangers).

 

Time your drop-off right, and—lucky you!—you’ll be able to bask in the church’s glorious stained glass windows by Matisse and Chagall.

 

Matisse's last art work is a five minute drive from Sleepy Hollow.
How'd we get so lucky?

Union Church is now open for window viewing every day except Tuesdays.

Hours: 11 a.m. - 5 p.m. weekdays (closed Tuesdays)
10 a.m. - 5 p.m. on Saturday
2 p.m. - 5 p.m. on Sunday

 

 

If you haven’t been to the Union Church Fall Harvest Fair—OCTOBER 18, 19 & 20 (Fri. & Sat. 9 a.m. - 4 p.m; Sun. 12- 4 p.m.)—for goodness’ sake, GO.

At worst, you’ll freak on the unbridled enthusiasm of the fair goers, and stick to the baked goods area, where you will pick up a yummy, homemade pumpkin pie for dessert.

At best, you’ll show up at the opening bell and snag that Chanel handbag that the Rockefellers pitched in to the boutique this year. (I used to think that the lore about Tiffany’s necklaces and diamond rings was fluff hype. It’s not—I lost out on that Chanel last year by the tips of my fingers. Grrrr.)

If you prefer to keep your cash in pocket, empty your vehicle and wait till the Fall Harvest Fair is over—They Curb All The Furniture.

(Though, to quote the fine print on any investment literature, past performance is no guarantee of future results.)

 

photo by Minna Irving for www.visitsleepyhollow.com

Readers from other regions (and yes, I include you Serbians, Chinese, and Russians that keep showing up on my blog audience stats) tell me: Where Do You Take The Excess?

 

Copyright 2013, Tanya Monier

 
 

Where To Take The Excess, pt. 1: The Cherry Door

Are You About To Curb Something? Read this first.


If you live in Tarrytown, NY, you've passed this door on Main Street, oh...a lot. Maybe you haven't gone inside. Here are a few reasons why you should.

1. The Stuff is Good

Please don't go in expecting to find couture. Cherry Door specializes in Things You Actually Use.

I particularly like the store's nice wooden furniture, which they sell for prices only slightly higher than a bargain yard sale.

Better yet, if you ask nicely, the manager with the great French accent, Dominique Picon, will drop the price of an item that you may be on the fence about. The man does not believe in letting dust gather on these goodies.

2. The Stuff Is Sorta Random

After seeing the Julie & Julia scene in which Meryl Streep's Julia Child raves about the superior edge of carbon steel knives, I decided to get some for my husband, who likes to sharpen knives. (He's a genuine Mountain Man, my husband.)

After searching around for two years, I finally found two carbon steel carvers in The Cherry Door's front case, next to the better jewelry. Eh, go figure. Anyway, $5 well spent, I say.

If it's your first time there, just wander and get to know the place. Reviewers, of which there are too few, rightly note, "A bit hard to navigate, but that's part of its charm!" 

True: It keeps the Hunter-Gatherer part of my brain satisfied.

Make a point of riffling through the Metro rack in the back room, the one stacked with fabrics.

Once, I found four 1960s cafe curtains that featured a little farmer girl. She looked exactly like the daughter of one of my best mama friends. It made a heck of a gift, even though the girl remained both unimpressed by my one-of-a-kind discovery and unconvinced of her resemblance to the illustration. (They're Doppelgangers, I swear.)



Taken last week--only $20!

Also, for the adventurous fashion maven, seek out The Cherry Door's dresses and relive memories of Thanksgiving, 1971....Only, now, you're the Mom.


















3. I Drop Stuff There All The Time

Don't panic! I mean "donate," not actually drop.

Once, I saw a conversation thread on Jenifer Ross' Facebook page 10591 about record players. A man asked where to get one, and several folks responded, "At The Cherry Door."

Know why they were right? Yes! Because I drop stuff off there all the time, including 4 record players I found during the last year. (Wait, maybe I gave that answer away in the category title...)

(btw: 10591 is NOT a "closed group"; you can still join. And if you're an entrepreneur, you should join Ross' W@tercooler, too.)


And, Did You Know?

The Cherry Door is a non-profit thrift store. Your purchases help support Phelps Hospital, just up the road from Tarrytown on Route 9.

It's my favorite place to go when I Do Something Wrong and need stitches.


So, Ready To Make a Donation?

They Want:
China
Silverware
Kitchen goodies (pots, servers, dishes, gadgets that work)
Linens and Fabrics (good quality)
Craft Supplies (unused)
Furniture
Lamps
Electronics (...that work; Dominique was very kind when I brought him a TV sporting a Post-It that shouted, "WORKS," even though its cord had been cut off. He knew it wasn't mine.)
Artworks
Accessories
Souvenirs
Books
Music
Movies

They Don't Want:
Lots of Kids Toys
Lots of Regular Clothing for men, women, and children
Stuff that Doesn't Work


"What should I do with the Stuff Cherry Door doesn't want?" You ask.
I answer, "Next time, my four dear Readers. Next time...."


The Cherry Door
36 Main St, Tarrytown, NY10591

(914) 631-0470

Accessibility Details: The entrance is at level with the sidewalk.

Hours: Tue - Sat, 11am - 4pm;

Sun, Mon, closed


Copyright 2013, Tanya Monier

The Village Tag Sale: A Love/Hate Story

Last time, I forgot to mention that this is also the season of Westchester's village-wide tag sales.  In other words… It’s the worst of times. It’s the best of times.
First, because it’s Monday and I’m listening to Tom Waits’ Nighthawks at the Diner…

The village-wide tag sale at its WORST:

For the Seller:

This was taken at the St. Barnabas Church
sale in Irvington, NY, last weekend,
but you get the idea.

1.     Shoppers Have Too Many Options.
It’s the worst of all possible days to hold your tag sale, and for the same reason that Match.com is the worst way to find a lifelong mate.
They just might decide to hit the ATM to come back and commit to your 15 year old speakers, but they’re just as likely to Follow Their Inner Squirrel and get distracted by the next pretty face—um, tag sale.

2.     Traffic Is Not As Heavy As You Hoped.

Why? There are too many sales happening at once, all over town, so people save time by doing drive-bys. Unless you physically halt their progress, they're never going to revel in the awesome stuff that they can't see from the car window.
Also, in the case of Tarrytown's sale this year, it was stunningly pretty outside. Folks went for walks. (I know this is true.) I called family members in California to brag that I live in New York, it was that pretty.

In the end, Sellers are left with Too Much Stuff.

For the Buyer:

1.     Everything is Expensive.

Village-wide tag sales inspire too many people to raise their prices. I see the same shocked expressions from house to house when shoppers ask the seller, “How much for that bag of mismatched Tupperware?” and get the response, “$20—I bought them from Bloomingdales.”

I know that these shoppers are thinking the same thing I am: I have $100 cash in my pocket, and nineteen more sales to hit. I don’t care what eBay says it's worth. It’s gotta be $5, Tupperware Hawker, or it’s not happening.

And, for the same Match.com reason, Sellers will refuse the $5. So many Shoppers out there, right? Someone’s bound to see the inherent value in that bag of mismatched plastic.

2.     Burnout!

It’s no different than daring your nine-year-old-self to eat the whole bag of Halloween candy. Two hours later, even I want to barf, and I have an enormous capacity for both candy and for tag sales.

In the end, both Buyer and Seller are left feeling a little disappointed, a little misunderstood.

The village-wide tag sale at its BEST:

Sellers, especially in the wealthiest corners of Westchester, have one fascinating habit…

They Kick It To The Curb.

After they charge too much and no one buys, most just walk back in to the house at the end of Sale Day, leaving the goods with the price tags still on them. I know garbage collectors get a bitter laugh out of this phenomenon; I've asked them.

But, for the Late-Comer and Curb Shopper, it’s like a happy dream, and you can get a giggle while you haul these overpriced goodies away to your lair.

The After Village-Wide Tag Sale shopping spree has only two limits: 

1. Physics. Can I lift that oak desk by myself? WHY did I put glass Christmas ornaments under a rocking chair?

2. Guilt. My Van is now full: Is it wrong to borrow or steal my neighbor's? If I don’t take that box of hardcover college Lit Class favs, will anyone else? Shouldn’t I be home with my family, enjoying a lovely walk in the woods on this stunningly pretty day?

 

This load is actually from a friend's attic,
but again, you get the idea.

So, Sellers…Buyers…. What do you do with The Excess?


Copyright 2013, Tanya Monier
 

Kitschy Cool Lamp

Autumn is The Season of the Sale. 

Church sales.  Consignment shop sales. Yard sales.

It's the most wonderful time of the year...to find a deal.

I picked up a classic 70s hanging lamp at a sale a month ago in North White Plains. The Gen Xer running the sale could not have been happier to get rid of it: "It was my father-in-law's...." I bet it was.

He wanted $2, but he smilingly took my $1.

"It works, too," he bragged. "You can just go home and hang it up!"

Um, noooo, but thank you. I had other plans for my very own set item from Three's Company.

First, I stripped out all the electrical parts and put them in a clear gallon baggie (I always lose parts, so the clear bag gives me a fighting chance to find them again), so I could get down to the lamp's skeleton. I envision it in a 1979 Denver condo, don't you?

For a day or two, I contemplated taking a can of gold or white spray paint to the chain to perk it up. After wrecking two spray paint projects in two days, however, I wised up and went to the Home Depot for a white chain and lamp cord set. $14, ugh. At that moment, Mrs. Roper's favorite lamp stopped being a $1 goof project and officially became an "investment."

I used to be a perfectionist. I'd use paint stripper on every project, then sand, then prime, then paint, then sand between coats, then paint again. When I explained my method to the guys who work at Wallauer's, they suggested that I might be in overkill mode.

Now, I do things their way: I give all surfaces to be painted a thorough go-over with 180 grit paper, then clean off ALL the dust. (From the file "I Do It Wrong So You Don't Have To": do not mess with the dust cleaning part, or you will eventually see your pretty paint job magically crumple and lift away from the inner corners of your project.) Anyway, I don't mind not following my old method. I get fewer paint remover burns (Yeee-ouch!) and I get to the fun part, painting, sooner.

Early this summer, a friend asked me to paint some of her furniture a vivid fuchsia. The Wallauer's crew gladly built a custom color for me, using Benjamin Moore paint, but the price was steep: $24 for a quart. My friend didn't like their result, but I did. So I kept the can.

Just warning you: I plan to Pink Out several finds.
I think Betsey Johnson would be pleased!

I was going to take pictures and notes to explain how to attach the electrical cord and chain to the newly pinked-out shade. But, my husband was done by the time I found my phone to take a picture, so, um...next time, ok?

By the way, that light bulb was $4, too. So much for a cheap upcycling thrill.

Grouchiness aside, how's THAT for a girl's room lamp?



And, of course, it's for sale!

Copyright 2013 Tanya Monier

The Path Of The Badger, aka Rules of the Road, pt. 2

Are you inspired to follow The Path of The Badger?

Autumn is the best time to give curb-shopping a try because Folks are feeling their Inner Squirrel. New stuff goes in to the nest. Old stuff goes to the curb...and, if you want, into your nest. Or sell it and watch it go to someone else’s nest. Just keep it out of the landfill, ok?

1.  Before You Drive, Dump Your Junk. Put seats down and haul out that in-car/minivan storage box. Trust me, if you don’t, you will hate that clutter—and yourself—when you are desperate for the last cubic inch needed to shut the door and get that electric children’s motorcycle back to your home.



Thought I was kidding? I. Never. Kid. I sold it, too.
 

2.  Head Out Late, Not Early.  For me, 8-10 pm is the best time to cruise the curbs of suburbia. The kids are in bed, watched over by my Prince of the Forest. Residents are inside, so I can mutter over their trash without weirding out or offending them.
I’m not a morning person anyway, but the one time I got out before the trash trucks, I found myself competing with small men in a dusty pink utility van. At the first house where our entrepreneurial businesses collided, the men, polite Central American immigrants, left me to pick through the goodies. By the third house, they knew, KNEW, something was up, and their polite smiles vanished.

Better not to tread on others’ toes. Just get there first, so you can dream while they roll with the early birds.

btw: I was going to title this rule "The Late Bird Catches the Worm." Then I remembered Rule #4 from "Rules of the Road, pt. 1" (maggots!) and decided against being clever.

3.  Do Not Camouflage Yourself. Let’s be honest: If I saw someone wearing black and a baseball cap rummaging through my trash pile at midnight, I'd call the cops. Also, you are less likely to get hit by a car if you wear light colors.

Anyway, you are doing these people a service... in an odd, little symbiotic way. Be proud!

This family told me they were moving back to France.
Thanks to sales from their curb, my kids went to France, too!

4. People Who Move Away Throw Out Stuff.

Wise realtors believe in “Staging.”
It's a professional’s way of saying, “Get your crap out of here, or no one else is going to want to live here.” Thus, those “For Sale” signs are also “Curb Sale” signs.

6. People Who Throw Out One Thing Will Throw Out Everything. I've seen this again and again.
First, something small goes out, maybe a DIY project that someone finally admits is not going to happen.
The next week: ”Hmmm, maybe this old garden hose, this splintery step-ladder, and this 3-drawer Sterilite organizer…..” 

There it is again. I have loads of these.
Are New Yorkers so organized that they can throw out their organizers?

By Week 4, this household is going for The Big High, emptying out the entire basement, den, craft room, kid’s playroom… I kid you not. 

Which should we blame for this behavior: serotonin or dopamine?

6a. Folks Who Witness Neighbors Trash Good Stuff Get Competitive.  Everybody around here wants that “I cleaned house” high! One night, two houses, side by side, curbed top-notch golf club sets with all the extras. What was their story—a double-dog dare?

When Westchester neighbors get competitive about tossing out their goods, some streets resemble an abandoned late-night flea market. I can find bookcases and libraries of books, patio furniture, computers, stereos, sporting equipment,  an array of luggage, master bedroom sets, American Girl Doll accessories...sometimes all at the same house.

It's the trash equivalent of High Stakes Poker. And to get in the game, almost everyone offers up a garden hose. I look up and down some streets and wonder, Is everyone buying the new as-seen-on-TV “Pocket Hose”?

America, Resist! If your hose ain't broke...

 

 

One last bit of advice:

Before you drag it home, ask yourself, “If I’m not going to use this, do I have space to store it until I find it a home?” I am only beginning to consider this one. If the answer is NO, you do not have to leave it behind. If there’s room in the car, pick it up and deliver it to the nearest Salvation Army or Goodwill, co-operative pre-school, or like-minded local organization.

Can’t fit it in the car? Call a friend. My friend is Hank, of Hank’s Alley in Tarrytown, the only second-hand store in these parts that does not claim to be an "Antique" store. Hank's prices reflect that attitude, too: “Honey, if you don’t like the price, never mind it. I can do better!” He's supplied nearly half the furniture in my little home. That is the kind of friend who deserves a good turn.

Copyright 2013 Tanya Monier

Why I Do Things Wrong: 3 examples

My dad and mom are remarkably competent, multi-talented people who believe in the following principles: 1. Do It Yourself; and 2. Do It Fast.

When I apply those principles to repair or upcycle my finds, however, I tend to focus on #2. That means I usually skip reading directions and so…I Do It Wrong.

It drives my husband insane. He’s got “engineer mind.” There’s a right way in the mind of an engineer: you read up, you plan, you prepare all surfaces, you measure twice, you cut once….

 

Huh? What? Yeah, I’m still here. I just stopped paying attention at the word “measure.”
Trust me, I understand the importance of organization. But something intensely arrogant lives within me that refuses to follow the path of the Planner. As a result, I all too often find myself in a DIY hell of my own making.

Example 1
I brought home my first battered 1930s vanity table when I was 19. I paid $15 for it at a Sacramento yard sale. Abandoned paper wasp nests clung to the underside. An 8 inch long strip of English walnut veneer had been torn away from the bottom drawer. (This was the early 1990s, before we had photography, so don't complain about missing pics, ok?)

Inspired by my new find, my father took me to a wood supply warehouse. I sniffed a new kind of heaven there. Sadly, such fine walnut veneers were no longer available in the regular market, so I bought something I thought was reasonable: a red-toned mahogany. In retrospect, it was, at best, a cheap interloper next to the dignified walnut burl.

Later that day, I felt wildly confident as I explained my plan to my mom: “I’ll strip off the bottom drawer veneer, replace it with this piece, and paint it to match the others!”

Rather than review the handbook on furniture repair that my highly-skilled woodworking neighbor had loaned me, I jumped right in. With a sharpened chisel.

Half an hour of chipping away at the veneer weakened my arm muscles. To give tired muscles a break, I turned the chisel around, towards me. Two chips later and I jabbed the corner of the chisel directly into my left wrist. I still have a one centimeter keloid scar where the chisel balanced itself in my flesh for one nauseating moment.

I love showing off scars, don't you?
 

After weeks of real work, I did turn out a passable repair and renovation on that vanity table.

These days, however, I’m plain stumped by the most basic DIY tool: spray paint.

It’s intensely colorful and quick. But it just refuses to do what I ask.

Example 2
Drips everywhere! “Sand them,” an artist friend says. When I did that with this potentially cool mid-century desk chair that I found in Armonk, the following coat looked like…this.

Now what do I do?

Example 3
This lamp, a Sleepy Hollow Village curb find, was once stuffed with colorless dried flowers and grasses.

Cleaned out, scrubbed up, and quickly sketched on with a gold-colored Sharpie—ripping off a Pinterest idea my craftiest mama friend sent me—the base looked good.

And it’s working fine, thanks to my husband’s handiwork.

(The last time I tried to repair lamp wire, I sliced through the webbing between two fingers and raced to the ER for stitches: another moment of self-induced DIY hell.)

But then, I just had to tempt fate with the lamp shade. I saw a gold foil shade in Better Homes and Gardens, and decided it would be clever to experiment with gold spray paint that I picked up for $.10 at a local yard sale. For once, I used a light hand with the spray. No drips.

Looked fine by the light of day, but at night--!

 

 

Again, I ask: Now what?

Should I...ugh, Trash It?

Copyright 2013 Tanya Monier

 

So, You Wanna See Me Upcycle Something?

I don’t blame you. It’s like that great Elvis song: “A little less conversation/ A little more action!”

Last autumn, a good mama friend gave me her guest room bed frame to sell and add to my “Playdate 2013” fund, which took my family to Europe this April.

Through craigslist, I sold the bed to a recently transplanted San Francisco engineer, here to help build the new Tappan Zee Bridge. As usual, I talked too much when we met, but she liked my “Playdate” idea. A few days later, she gave me two more items to sell for my “Playdate” fund. (This is not the first time a craigslist sale became a friend and the source of more stuff for craigslist sales; maybe another story on another day…).

One, a mid-century "Bali Hai" dresser by Henry Link, became an instant object of lust for craigslist browsers; I sold it in 24 hours for $100. (Bali Hai usually sells online for $400-$1,900! If you’ve been wondering where the great deals on craigslist went, search for “Sleepy Hollow”—you’ll probably find me). An immaculately groomed couple, recent LA transplants, raced up from Manhattan to grab that deal.

Yet another California girl in New York, I began to wonder if my calling is as a Craigslist Yenta.

Anyway, back to the goodies….

The other item my new engineer friend gave me was a trapezoidal vanity seat with cracked beige vinyl upholstery and ragged, red-brown stained wood.

As with most of my finds, that seat spent months languishing in my basement. But I didn’t forget it.

I finally showed it to my craftiest mama friend in town. “I want to re-upholster it with teal velvet from a Coldwater Creek dress.” I showed her; it’s a gorgeous, long-sleeved, floor-length size 14 (you should buy it from me, seriously). She wisely told me to think before chopping a sellable dress for a yard of fabric. She also said, “I think that seat needs something wild.”

During my next visit to Goodwill, I spotted a stretch faux-denim jacket featuring high-volume mod print. Perfect.

Back in the early 80s, my mom took an upholstery class and stunned our household by re-upholstering the dining chairs, the sofas, and several armchairs in less than a month. (See, I am just plain lazy next to my own little mama.) Mom thought we ignored her efforts, but nine-year-old me was paying attention as I sighed and grumbled about stretching the fabric evenly this way and that while she tacked the tiny nails in.

Upholstery: it’s all about symmetry.

At our kids’ next play date, I made my crafty friend shoot the staple gun as I wrapped the jacket’s back panels over the vanity seat’s removed and cleaned-up base. The kick-back on that staple gun shocked us both. But, I trust my friend with interior design questions; I trust her with my life.

Quality shears that my mom gave me twelve years ago (and which I never once saw a use for until that day) made slicing away the jackets arms and pockets a breeze. We did good, as my dad says. I called my mom to say thanks for those long-ago lessons.

As for the vanity seat’s wooden frame, I gave it a serious preparatory sanding and two coats of decade-old oil-based Benjamin Moore paint in “Atrium White” that was tucked away in my basement. I was careful to sand between coats, which makes a glassy-smooth surface when the second coat dries.

In the end, it’s pretty cute, huh?

And it’s for sale. I’m turning Trash into Culture again. This time, I’m planning to take the family to Ireland and Sweden for “Playdate 2014.”

Interested?









Copyright 2013 Tanya Monier

So...Why "The Happy Badger"?

The answer to “Why the name?” is easier than “Why the whole curb-shopping thing?” so I’ll start with that.

The time: spring, 1998. The world still reeled from Princess Diana’s death, though it had occurred months earlier.

The place: Mainz, Germany. The town square flaunted a monumental banner advertising The Spice Girls’ movie, Spice World.

 

The moment: The man I loved, loved, loved had defied my cynical expectations and had moved from glorious Santa Barbara to gray Germany, to be with me. We were snuggling in my rented attic room. Its sloping ceiling, against which my lover always cracked his head when he sat up in bed, made Anne Frank’s attic look palatial.

At his suggestion, I had just finished reading Farley Mowat’s Never Cry Wolf.

In my romantic bliss, I recognized a kinship with “Angeline,” who excitedly, delightedly greeted her mate “George” every time they met, no matter how many or how few moments had passed since they parted.

“You remind me of George,” I murmured.  “So strong and loving….Or, maybe you are a noble stag, like Bambi’s dad.”

My lover gave me a sidelong glance and a quick huff through his nose.

“Soooo…” I went fishing for a compliment. “What animal do I remind you of?”

No bites.

“Um… hello?” No murmur now. “What animal do I remind you of?”

Quiet thought crinkled the edges of his eyes.

I waited, eager to hear “wolf,” which surely would indicate that we were meant to be together forever. My ego demanded “hawk” or “lion,” something fearless and strong. But even felis catus would have pleased me. Yes, at that moment, I would have been mighty contented to be this man’s pet.

“Hmmm….” He hesitated a moment longer, then pronounced, “I think you’re a badger.”

End romantic reverie. Cut to barroom brawl.

Just as a general warning, Readers, never ever call your female lover “a badger.” I can guarantee that she will instantly become one. This warning goes double, triple, if your lover happens to have spent twenty-one of her twenty-five years on earth loving and studying and teaching the English language.

“I’m a WHAT?!! You DO know that “badger” is a VERB, right? And it’s NOT a GOOD verb! There are NO positive connotations associated with ‘badgering’ something! And,” I howled, “I’m tall! I’m not a damned badger!”

Literally and figuratively, I had my lover in a corner. He flushed but held his ground.

“I’m sure that a badger could be very sweet and loving when she’s happy—”

That “I’m sure” and that “could be” were directly responsible for at least fifteen extra minutes of shrieking, snarling, spitting rage.

But, bless him, my lover never fled me. And I didn’t kick him to the curb. To quote Charlotte Bronte, “Reader, I married him.” Truth be told, I am the Mr. Rochester in this relationship, and my husband is Jane Eyre.

It's 2013.
We live in Westchester County. 
People still grieve for the loss of Princess Diana. When I see the latest oversexualized princess of pop shake what her mama gave her, I grieve for the loss of the Spice Girls.

From time to time over our nearly fifteen years of marriage, I have thrown my husband's ridiculous pronouncement back in his face. I even tell the story to skittish lovers to assure them that they should hold steady and not take the wildly insensitive things our beloved says too much to heart.

My husband has never bowed to my pressure to find me another animal comparison, dammit. (That’s probably because he’s the noble Prince of the Forest, humph.)

But, what I find more astonishing is that all these years later, his choice makes sense. A hawk flies high and far, but it is an isolated, anti-social creature: not me. A lioness is pretty awesome, but she’s too often willing to share her mate with others: NOT me. I like to cuddle, but I am no one’s kitty cat. And, to be honest, those animals are happiest when they have blood on their beaks or teeth.

The fact is, now that I am a wife-mother-tutor-curb-shopper-upcycler-blogger, I am genuinely happy. I love my suburban den and my family with all my furry, mammalian heart. I will bristle from my curly hair to my hairy toes and snarl and spit at anything that threatens them. I love to trundle around from place to place, juggling socializing and isolating activities.

Turns out that I am, indeed, The Happy Badger.

Copyright 2013 Tanya Monier

This Curb-Shopper’s Rules of the Road, part 1

1.     Pick It Up and Get Going. Irrational or not, I have a fear of getting arrested for curb shopping. Anyway, I break that rule all the time, every single outing. See Post #1 for in-depth confession.

2.     Be Prepared—always have tape measure, convertible screwdriver, Allen wrenches, and small flashlight. Actually, this thought just crossed my mind. Seems a really good idea. Maybe I should try it.

3.     Plastic Does Not Sell. But it is mighty useful. My basement has optimal organization potential, thanks to those rolling three-drawer Sterlites that people routinely unload. But when will I take the time to fill and use them instead of just leave them taking up basement space…? I do not know. 

4.     Do Not Open Opaque Bags. Anything could be lurking inside, and I do not want to end up on local news as the woman who found body parts in a contractor’s bag in Scarsdale. Cuz, you know, Scarsdale’s much more dangerous than the press lets on.

One time, I was sorely tempted by a black contractor’s bag on a good friend’s curb. She had just renovated her place, and the curb display was fine. It was far too late to call her and ask, “What’s IN THAT BAG?”  I stood at the curb, devil on one shoulder, angel on the other. The devil went home in a huff that night.

The next day, I confessed in a text that I went dumpster-diving at her place. I got an urgent reply: “Hope you did NOT OPEN THE BAGS! Workers left days of leftovers in the garage! MAGGOTS!” 

Following the rules saves this Curb Shopper from unspeakable nastiness.

5.     While Cruising, Listen to Something Old. The first night I boldly went where only sweatpant wearing guys in utility vans had gone before, music added to the excitement.

      WCBS started playing The Four Seasons’ “December, 1963” at the moment I sighted a promising pile in front of a dark house with a “SOLD” sign on the lawn. I scoffed, but I left the song on in the dark as I sweated and struggled to fit a full antique steamer trunk into the not-empty back end of God Bless America. I felt like a happy disco-era grave robber. After I got home, pried open the trunk’s rusted lock, and found it filled with the former house owner’s 1920s-50s hand-embroidered linens and beaded French purses, I felt instead that I had saved a life. “Oh, what a night,” indeed.

 

So, these days, I seek out Joan Jett’s “Bad Reputation,” The Guess Who’s “American Woman,” T Rex’s “Get It On,” The Doors “Twentieth Century Fox,” Blondie's "One Way Or Another." I am Curb Shopper, breaking the rules of suburban decency, cruising dimly-lit streets, picking up other people’s “trash.”

I have to listen to music that gives me the metaphorical balls needed to push that oversized, overstuffed armchair into that already-jam-packed van, rules of physics be damned.

If you are inspired by this post and want to get in the Game, consider keeping your motivation music at moderate levels, or the residents will come to the window and stare you down. If they do, hold your head up, smile, and wave respectfully. And then, turn the music down a little.

6.     When Cruising, Listen to Something New. I tune the radio to WNYC, our local NPR station. Their late-night talk shows are genius. As a mommy who often misses cultural developments other than which hyper-sexualized pop star flashed her assets on national TV, shows like “Sound Check” bring up-to-date with what’s new and worthy. Canadian “Q,” hosted by my latest voice-crush Jian Gomeshi, opens my eyes to what’s happening with my Neighbors to the North. “Radio Lab” is so smart, so alive, so lyrically interlaced, it messes with my head in the most pleasurable ways; halfway through the hour, the road doesn’t look solid anymore. Until I catch sight of another curb find. 

Copyright 2013, Tanya Monier